


stop there and let me correct it (i wanna live a life from a new perspective)

by lovemailhotline



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternative Universe - Band, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Drug Use, Family Issues, Kenma Kozume & Yamaguchi Tadashi Friendship, M/M, Multi, Punk Yamaguchi Tadashi, Punk band, Roommates, alcohol use, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovemailhotline/pseuds/lovemailhotline
Summary: At age twenty-three, Yamaguchi Tadashi begins a punk rock band.At age twenty-three, Tsukishima Kei goes to his first punk rock concert and falls in love with the lead singer.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	stop there and let me correct it (i wanna live a life from a new perspective)

Yamaguchi stares down at his phone with wide eyes. He’s watching as tickets rapidly fill in for their next show, down at _Velveteen Rabbit,_ the numbers jumping from thirty to one-hundred-twenty in a matter of five minutes. Comments are already beginning to brew in for their section, raining in praises for their last two shows that went live on _Youtube_ and other streaming sites. 

He’s excited. He’s _so_ excited. They’ve never had a show reach so many people. The live streams—yes, _multiple—_ had succeeded in getting thousands of views while still live, and hundreds while uploaded alone. He’s going to burst with the feeling. He doesn’t even know what the feeling is, but he’s just happy, just all _blerg,_ something that lays in his stomach and keeps him jittery. 

“Kenma!” He whisper-shouts, shaking his friend with his foot. They’re laying down at the couch on opposite sides, the black-haired male seemingly napping, head smashed onto a pillow. Kozume groans when Tadashi pokes his stomach again with a socked toe. 

Kenma catches Yamaguchi’s foot at the third hit. He sits up, glares with golden eyes, and hisses, _“What?”_

Yamaguchi wiggles in his grasp. “We’ve got one-hundred— _umm,_ nevermind! _Two hundred and one seats booked!”_

Kozume flops his head back onto the arm chair, letting go of Yamaguchi and letting his foot fall onto his stomach. He picks up the remote to change the channel, which is playing some dreadful sitcom, in exchange for a commercial yapping about a marathon of horror movies to come. 

When he glances at Tadashi and sees the puppy dog eyes the younger is sporting, he sighs. “What would you like me to say about that?” 

Yamaguchi frowns at his flat tone. Kenma could at least _pretend_ to be a bit stoked to match his enthusiasm with Tadashi’s. “Aren’t excited? People wanna see us! This is a good thing, _Kenma.”_

Kenma simply shrugs. There’s a small quirk of his lips, a barely-there smile placed on his face as he turns back to the TV. 

“That’s cool,” he says, hair a curtain over his face when he ducks down. 

Here is the thing about Kozume, from the study that Yamaguchi has conducted—he loves performing, loves writing music, loves the idea of the punk rampage. He, however, _hates_ being around people, which directly clashes with his love for performance. He can deal with being on stage, but as soon as it’s time to greet the fans or audience members, he begins to stumble and get uncomfortable around the energy presented. 

Tadashi has never minded this part of Kenma. Him and Shoyo have enough brightness to pass around and make up for the lack of words Kenma speaks. Kenma can just wave and scurry backstage with his tail between his legs, because he does enough when he’s helping them practice with their cover songs since he _does_ know how to play a shit-ton of instruments and has been through dozens of voice trainers. It’s enough for him to just be there in the first place—whether it’s leading the song with his entrancing voice or rocking the guitar besides Yamaguchi. 

Yamaguchi crawls on top of Kenma’s chest, holding his phone out to his friend’s face, who shoves it away without even glancing at it. They do a rough game of tugging at each other’s hands until Tadashi flops onto Kozume with a loud, exaggerated huff. 

“No one here appreciates how far we’ve gotten,” he moans in faux agony, “all of the hard work we’ve done, wasted! Our efforts, _forgotten!”_

He punctuates his words by bringing the back of one hand to his forehead, turning over into Kenma’s hoodie and making his hair stick up oddly. Kenma simply snorts at the gesture, running his fingers through Tadashi’s hair in an effort to bring it back into place. 

“Thank you for telling Dean from our world history class to come to our show and record us,” Kozume coos. “Even though I told you not to.” 

Yamaguchi turns to glare at him, face brightened by the TV. “It _literally_ got us four different bookings. _And_ I never told him to record us. That was a decision made by an adult by himself. Quit the sarcasm ‘for I hit you, meanie.” 

“Sure, sure,” Kenma pets his head. 

Kozume can be so _annoying._

It is the truth though—while _yes,_ Kenma did specifically tell Yamaguchi not to invite Dean _‘the creepy kid who watches Yamaguchi type and doesn’t even try to hide it, seriously quit sitting next to him’_ to their latest show, he is the reason for the success. 

Yamaguchi’s thankful for him. Thankful that people saw Kenma singing and went crazy. Thankful that they sparked up a talk on the internet, because people _like_ them. He feels like he’s in a movie. It’s surreal, really, and he’s glad for it, even if his best friend is acting like he doesn’t really care much. 

When the door opens, they both look up, and catch Hinata’s exhausted gaze. He does nothing except for put his bag down, close the door, and clumsily makes his way to the couch to flop on top of the duo. 

Kozume scrunches his nose. “Take off your outside clothes.” 

“Any clothes are outside clothes if you’re brave enough,” Shoyo says, monotone, his voice muffled by the fabric of Tadashi’s shirt. 

Yamaguchi nods along to his point. Because. He’s right. 

“Take your _shoes_ off,” Kenma ruffles Hinata’s orange hair, and his long nails tickle at the scalp, just as they do with Tadashi’s. Hinata bats his hand away, groaning loudly about how ‘ _nobody loves him’_ until Yamaguchi sits up and takes Hinata’s shoes off himself, throwing them at the door. 

They fall to the floor with a _thud,_ and Yamaguchi giggles at the noise in the quiet. 

“Thank the Gods this is my last day of real school,” Shoyo says after a few moments of silence. “I don’t think I could’ve done that anymore.” 

Kenma laughs lightly. “Online school is still _real school,_ Shoyo. But I get it. I’m happy you’re doing this now, ‘cause it’s better for you to do something you really want than stay there.” 

They’re a pretty odd bunch, Tadashi thinks—Kenma, a college drop-out, Yamaguchi, a college graduate, and Hinata, who’s still currently doing school, but pulled out of real school for virtual learning. He doesn’t like his classmates. Doesn’t like his teachers. Doesn’t like interacting with people who look down on him or whisper at him when he walks past them. Online school is better than no school, or that is at least what Kenma had lectured him on, but both of his friends wanted him to make the best decision for him. Which, in Shoyo’s case, was virtual learning. 

“Shoyo,” Yamaguchi hands his red-headed friend his phone with a delighted grin. “Look at the website, come on, look at it!” 

_“Noooo,”_ Hinata’s eyes are already closed. He’s ready to sleep. Yamaguchi pouts. 

“Does no one except for me care that we’re basically famous? Huh? Do you guys hate the _hashtag fame_ life already?” But he tosses the phone to the coffee table anyways and then winces at the sound of it clattering, glass against glass. 

Kenma adjusts his body so that Tadashi is pulled against his chest and Hinata is in the middle of them both, pulling the blanket up so that only the top of Hinata’s curls are visible behind the thick, black comforter. 

“We are not famous,” he mumbles, too closing his eyes. 

Tadashi frowns. He should go to sleep, too, though, probably. It’s not even late—it can’t be any earlier than nine-thirty—but the old movie playing on the screen reminds him of a nostalgic memory of sleeping on the couch as a child, warmed with nothing but a decorative pillow, and the thought of that alone makes it more tired than he already is. 

Now that he’s thinking about it, Yamaguchi has never really dreamed of fame before, and he doesn’t really know if he even wants fame. He’s sure he doesn’t crave it. Yamaguchi doesn’t crave much except for sweets. He’s never had his eye on being a famous person, a famous band, he doesn’t want to walk outside and have people flashing a camera in his face and others screaming his name after crowding and camping outside of his house. That’s weird. That’s too much. That’s not even fun. 

Tadashi really just wants to make music. Wants to sing or play the guitar or begin his drumming lessons with Hinata. Performing so far has been _fun,_ learning how he can sing and scream in a way that drips confidence, the confidence he can’t hold inside of himself, but can push out into a microphone, _that’s_ what he looks forward to when he feels the excited energy of the room. 

He supposes having a fanbase wouldn’t be too bad. They technically already have one, just a group of four girls who always come to their shows, always comment on their social media, always remind people to stream the covers they do, since they haven’t released any official music. Yamaguchi finds it comforting. The girls are sweet. They’re always respectful, always ask before hugging one of the members, never invite themselves into their personal space like a lot of other people do after shows. He likes how small the band's fanbase is now. If it gets any bigger he might pass out. 

Tadashi’s phone beeps from the table. The flashlight sparks, but no one flinches, so he assumes his friends are in a restful slumber, cousins with death. 

Yamaguchi ignores it as it beeps again. He wraps his hands around the warm bodies of both his friends, tucking his face into Kenma’s neck and listens to the sound of his heart beat, thrumming against the soft skin. 

In Tadashi’s phone lay seven numbers. Two of them belong to his school, one for the announcements and email reads, and the other for a number his teacher’s call through to reach him. Three are friends, two of them being the ones laying besides him. One is the _Velveteen Rabbit’s._ The final is his mother. 

He wonders if he called his mother, who he hasn’t spoken to since he was eighteen, since he packed up and left, if she would cry tears of joy. If she would scream at him for leaving. If she’d do her angry voice that is more of a whisper than a word to compare, tell him never to call her again. If someone entirely new would pick up the phone and tell him he’s _got the wrong number, please don’t call again._

He wonders if she’d even pick up at all. 

  
  


Tsukishima’s literature study class gets out early. He packs up his books and his notebooks, debates asking for his pen back from the girl with blue hair that sits in front of him and never has any materials other than a cyan binder, but throws the idea from his mind when he sees her teeth nibbling on the click top. 

It’s freezing cold when he steps outside of the school doors, and he curses himself for not wearing the jacket Kuroo had gotten for him last Christmas, even if it makes him look like a puffy snowman who had gotten run over multiple times. 

There’s a coffee shop he could indulge himself in, and the autumn flavors tempt him as he reads them from afar, postered onto the glass front. He doesn’t even like pumpkin spice. He gets it every year, every seasonal time it comes around, and regrets it because pumpkin _never_ tastes good. 

But Tsukishima is twenty-one now. This is the third year his taste buds are changing. There is a chance he can like the dreadful taste of a pumpkin spice latte. 

There’s no line in the shop. Everyone there is already seated with a treat of their choice, and Kei relishes and lets the icy cold crackle off of his warming body, savoring the heat. 

He orders pumpkin spice against his brain still telling him not to. The lady at the register looks bored out of her mind, and nods to him. She doesn’t ask his name. Maybe that’s just a _Starbucks_ thing. 

It’s a little awkward every time they make eye contact, since Tsukishima isn’t sitting down like the rest of the customers, and he stares down at the browning floor tiles to avoid her watchful gaze, glancing at him in faux curiosity. 

She hands him the drink, he slides her a five dollar bill. She tells him, _“have a good day,”_ and Kei doesn’t say it back, because neither of the two would mean it. 

He stares at the coffee once he leaves. It doesn’t smell bad. His mouth waters for a taste he finds foreign now. 

It’s good. His taste buds have changed. The drink isn’t any different, the same odd splash of cinnamon as before, with the flavor of nutmeg sharp and flooding along his tongue, warm and close to steaming, but not enough to sear him. It invites fall to come. He lets the cup burn his fingers a bit before switching hands. It feels like a thick blanket around his shaking, pale hands and chattering teeth. 

Kei makes his way to his apartment complex, still bitten by the cold fall air, nose tinged pink. It’s a struggle to flash his keycard to the door while holding his history book and his drink, but he manages. He ignores the landlord when she greets him. 

The house smells like weed when Tsukishima walks in. He sighs when he sees Kuroo lounging on the couch with a pen, puffing smoke out into the air. 

“Can’t you sit at the window and do that?” He asks, scrunching his nose in disgust as he wafts the smell from his face, setting his materials down on the coffee table. 

Kuroo turns his head, almost in slow motion, eyes looking as though they were drenched in bleach. “You can study in the library, you know. Or your _room.”_

“My room is directly next to the neighbors, who are always fucking,” Kei changes the channel to _Animal Planet,_ which is playing some penguin documentary. “I’m not up to listen to that while I read about Christopher C. stealing from the Natives.” 

Kuroo shrugs, taking another hit of the pen. “Cool. Want a hit?” 

Tsukishima accepts the weed without hesitation. He’s felt like shit all day, has a pounding headache, and the shit aftertaste of pumpkin spice has begun to settle in his mouth. 

His nerves are calmed almost immediately, which is most likely just the illusion of feeling how _good_ weed hits, but he lets himself sink into the couch and take puffs while watching the television. 

Kuroo leans in, probably preparing to shotgun, but Kei pushes his face away with a snicker. Kuroo’s face falls, making grabbing hands at the pen. 

“Give it _back,”_ he whines, holding Tsukishima’s head back by his hair, “you’re such a dick. No more weed for you. I’m too nice.” 

“I swear to God, we do this shit every time you get new weed.” Tsukishima hands him back the pen. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo takes a long hit before glaring, “because you _always_ start bein’ stingy as hell.” 

Kei snickers again. 

They sit on the couch together for the next twenty minutes, Tsukishima mostly ignoring his work in favor of making Kuroo tell him the answers, insisting that he’s already taken the course before and should help Tsukishima out like a _good senior._

Kuroo wacks him in the arm with the remote. Kei steals the pen again. 

  
  


They order takeout after Kuroo complains about being hungry for the next hour they spend doing Tsukishima’s work. 

Kuroo pays. That is suspicious. 

“What do you want?” Kei asks when Kuroo puts the food down at the table. He opens the container filled with stir fry and ignores Tsukishima’s question. 

_Oh,_ that’s definitely suspicious. Kuroo will no doubt be asking Kei to do something for him. And it’s a _Friday._ Jesus. 

Kuroo sets their plates, playing innocent as he hands Kei a plastic fork and hands him the bag of chicken wings. 

“You _want_ something,” Kei says, accusation clear in his tone. He points the fork in Kuroo’s direction with furrowed eyebrows, “dude, just say what you want.” 

“I don’t want anything,” Kuroo shrugs. “But if you’re _offering—”_

_“I knew it—”_

“—Come with me to Kenma’s show tomorrow night. It’ll be so much fun, it’s like, their third show, and they’re so good, and we should be there to support our friend.” 

“Kozume is _your_ friend,” Tsukishima mumbles around a bite of noodles. 

Kuroo throws a chicken bone at him. Kei dodges it, watching as it hits the red couch with uninterested eyes. 

“Don’t call him Kozume, he hates that shit,” Kuroo says. “But just _come._ What’s the worst that can happen?” 

“You saying that just jinxed the entire night, so now I’m _definitely_ not going.” 

“You’re such a little _twerp, swear to God—”_

Tsukishima grabs the remote and turns up the volume, trying to drown out Kuroo’s voice in a moderator speaking over a sports game he doesn’t care about one bit. 

He would go—he doesn’t dislike music or concerts or anything, since he’s been to many before—but the thought of being trapped in some freak underground warehouse with a bunch of millennials doused in sweat and hair textured with gel doesn’t sound like the best Saturday night experience he can have. 

Kozume’s cool, too, except for his terrifying cat-like eyes that always make Kei feel like he’s stalking him or some shit. Or staring at him so intensely, he can see the inside of his soul. It’s creepy, while also being intriguing—but not in any way that Kei would wanna like… be romantically interested. That’s all on Kuroo. Which is another reason Tsukishima really isn’t interested in going. 

He can deal with a _lot._ But watching Kuroo flirt with Kozume for hours and Kozume being hopelessly oblivious to it all is so damn embarrassing and _awkward_ to be in the middle of. Whether it’s Kuroo brushing his hands through Kozume’s hair and Kozume grinning softly up at him, or Tsukishima walking in Kuroo’s room to find them cuddled up on the bed like a bunch of newly weds—you get the idea, they’re _gay_ and _interested._

Kei also isn’t the biggest fan of punk—the music or the culture. Kuroo can rock out to _All Time Low_ and _Mayday Parade,_ but count Tsukishima the hell out and hand him a pair of headphones and he can pretend to not hear a thing. 

There is absolutely no reason for him to go to the concert. 

“I’ll do your homework in Mr. Letworth’s for the next four weeks,” Kuroo promises. 

Tsukishima nearly drops his fork. “Deal.” 

Okay, maybe he jinxed himself on that one. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey! yes, they haven't met... we will get to that soon, promise. also (if you've read my other tsukkiyama fic, you will know this) but i do NOT add lyrics to my fictions. so if someone is singing, you can imagine any song you want! i also find it kind of embarrassing and it's not my thing. i'll put a song at the beginning if you want to have the song i envisioned while writing, and will probably make a playlist in order of the chapters that goes with the events and performances. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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